Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 28170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 141(@200wpm)___ 113(@250wpm)___ 94(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 141(@200wpm)___ 113(@250wpm)___ 94(@300wpm)
“The brotherhood,” Trace said. I looked at him. He must have been about twenty-four, twenty-five? Trace took me into the house. A group of guys were in the massive kitchen. They looked different to Trace and his friends. They looked smarter in their fancier clothes. Spoke different. Sounded like they did more than fight gangs on the street.
An older guy with suspicious eyes got to his feet. “Who’s this?” he asked as he flicked his chin.
“Shane Rutherford,” Trace said. “Found him getting mugged by spics. Couldn’t leave a brother to get beaten down that way.”
The older guy nodded. “Jay’s in the back room. He’ll fix him up.” I followed Trace down a hallway to a back room. The place was mostly wood paneled, American and Nazi flags pinned on most of the walls. Then, at the end, was a huge fuck-off painting of Hitler.
Motherfucking Adolf Hitler.
I stopped dead, just staring at that picture. I wasn’t stupid. In fact, I’d been pretty fucking smart throughout school. Good with mechanics. Engineering, that kind of shit. And I’d paid attention in European History class. I was fully fucking aware of Hitler. Knew some about white power and the KKK. Never given them much thought. They’d never been part of my life. But as Hitler’s fierce eyes bored into mine from the painting, some kind of new pounding settled in my chest.
Laughter came from down the hallway. A window sat to the right of me, and I looked out at the men in the yard. They were drinking American beer and Scottish fucking whiskey and having the time of their lives. My gut pulled as I realized I’d never really had a group of friends like that. I’d had football. But when your old man was an alcoholic whose favorite hobby was smashing his fist into his son’s face, it made you close in. None of those guys knew what it was to be me. I’d played football because I was a huge fucker who needed to hit people. To get out this rage. My old man was even bigger than me. No matter how much I fought back, that bastard always won.
One of the guys turned up the volume on a stereo, and some rock song blared from the speaker. He screamed the lyrics. About brotherhood and being a white American. I felt the beats from the song travel through my veins like crack.
I wanted to be out there with them. Fucking drinking and not giving a shit about anything but the men around me.
“You good?” Trace spoke from behind me. I turned and gave him a nod. He took hold of my arm and pulled me into a smaller room off the hallway. A tall, thin guy with brown hair stood beside a bed made up with white sheets.
The guy held out his hand. “Jay.” I introduced myself.
“Ex-Army,” Trace said, pointing at Jay. “Medic.” Trace slapped Jay on the back. “Served for this fucking country. Taking down cunts that try to take away our freedom.” Trace smiled. “Fucking white hero.”
“Thank you for your service.”
Jay nodded, and I could tell by the glint in his eyes that I’d just done something right. “Sit on the bed.” Jay sent Trace away, then stitched up my cuts and strapped up my ribs. The whole time he told me about how he’d had a similar background to me. Found his home here with Johnny Landry. Then he joined the army. Wanted to fight for his country. Told me most of the brothers at this ranch did. They were American soldiers, not thugs. Landry had a bigger mission than just street fights with Mexicans and blacks. With every word spoken, my heart beat faster and faster, hanging off everything he said. Family . . . brothers . . . a cause . . . a reason for living . . . Those words lit me up like the fourth of July.
When he was done, Jay put his hand on my shoulder. “You need to talk to Landry, kid. You’re the kind of solider he’s looking for. I can tell.” He tapped his head. “You got something up here”—he laughed—“As well as all that fucking muscle.” Then he left, leaving me alone.
I couldn’t get his words from my head. I was what Landry was looking for. A smirk pulled at the corner of my mouth.
I knocked back the pain meds Jay had handed me along with the can of beer he’d given me to take them with.
I ran my hand down my face, suddenly dead tired, but my mind racing with what had happened. With that picture of Hitler looking at me like he could see through me. With Landry’s eyes staring at me as I’d walked in. When I opened my eyes, someone was in the doorway. The guy looked my age, maybe a bit younger. My gaze narrowed on him.